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At last, we have the finalists for the Heaven Eleven Annual Ekphrastic Marathon in July. And the results are a wild surprise: the winner of both the poetry and the flash categories this year is the same person! What an amazing experience it was to connect virtually and create with writers all over the world. It is an incredibly intense experience every year, to write fourteen drafts of poetry, flash fiction, or other forms, in a single day! The goal of the marathon is to complete the marathon and be part of the experience. Writers had the option of polishing or revising their drafts after the fact, and submitting five to the contest portion of the event. The editorial team has been busy ever since the deadline, reviewing an incredible array of stories, poems, CNF, and more, responding to an exciting variety of artworks. We read all entries blind, and discussed our favourites together. It was a challenge to come to a consensus for some of the works, and others were voted in by all of us. Many works were difficult to leave out as well. Ultimately, we had to decide, and created a finalist file that was only a fraction of the wonderful works created in this experience. For the flash fiction category, Sandi Stromberg chose one piece from the finalists. Kate Copeland chose the winner in the poetry category from the poem finalists. Sandi and Kate chose their respective winner independently of each other and independently of my input, from the finalists we all chose together. They were still choosing from documents without author names. The Ekphrastic Review reads blind for some events like the marathon, and leaves names in tact for other situations, such as the bimonthly challenges and general submissions. Both systems have advantages and disadvantages. In this case, the finalists were a huge surprise, as many authors had several works chosen as finalists, some placing in both categories. Another big surprise was that our double winner is a first-time marathon participant, and new to ekphrasis! We are thrilled to welcome this amazing new talent to our pages. A huge congratulations to everyone who was part of the marathon. Well done! I know many of you have placed stories and poems from the experience and love seeing them out in the world of journals. And a huge thank you to Kate and Sandi for your hard work and dedication to our wonderful world of writers. love, Lorette And without further ado, the flash fiction winner of the Heaven Eleven Marathon is "California Summer," by Chantal Emmery. Congratulations, Chantal! Chantal's story is first up, below, and then the finalists follow in alphabetical order by author. The poetry finalists are announced in a separate post. ** After much deliberation—having enjoyed the many fascinating pieces of flash fiction—it was a simple phrase in an epistolary piece called “California Summer” that grabbed me. After “Hey Ma,” Eddie, who signs the letter, writes, “I figured I’d get it all out at once to limit the carnage, and so you’d only have one letter to burn.” A high bar, but the writer clears it with a roller coaster of emotions, present and past. Told through the sometimes faltering, sometimes strong voice of a young man out in the bigger world, through specific detail and imagery, we receive revelations, one after another, until the deepest one reaches both Eddie’s and the reader’s consciousness. Sandi Stromberg Editor, The Ekphrastic Review  FLASH FICTION WINNER!!!!! California Summer Hey Ma, It’s exactly like they said it’d be here - hot and dry and full of beautiful women. I’m missing you and the family. I figured I’d get it all out at once to limit the carnage, and so you’d only have one letter to burn. I’m not coming home. Home is a mask, and the suffocating heat of it clinging to my mouth is worse than this California summer. I didn’t come here to find a beautiful woman. I’m in love with a man I won’t name, except to call him earnest. I know you’ll be shocked, so I might as well say that this man has shown me a kindness to rival your own - that’s saying something. I’m grateful to you and Pa for everything. You’ve taught me an iron work ethic, and how to keep the eggs from sticking to the pan. You’ve shown me about responsibility, paying my dues, and connecting with the divine. You raised me to tell the truth. I’ll tell it as plainly as I can - I am responsible to love this man. And since we’re being honest, I’ll mention that I was asked to play a small role in a movie. They needed someone who knew how to break a horse. You taught me that too. And break was never the right word for it anyway. You showed me what it meant to earn the trust of a mustang. You didn’t raise your voice, so I didn’t raise mine. And I’m telling you, he came to me like we were old friends and the producers were all beside themselves and I said you can thank Mrs. Wakefield for that. I’ll have changed my name by then, when you see that horse on the screen (if Pa is feeling frivolous). Give all my love to Hank and Nellie. I hope they know it breaks my heart to be so far from you all. And next time you ride Opal, when you get past that crest on Munson where the sky opens up to forever, think of me. That’s what it feels like for a mustang to be free even though he’s got a weight on his back. Lovingly, Your Eddie Chantal Emmery Chantal is a life-long journaler and word-lover attempting to live off-grid. Ekphrasis is a wonderful new medium to her, and she's excited to dive in.  Still Life Apollinaire, Matisse, Metzinger—all pale in comparison to Picasso, Juan thinks. He smokes, looks out the window. Sees other windows. Trees. Looks down at the stack of magazines before him, a jumble on the desk. He smokes. Wonders what the daily paper brings, but won’t look at it. Is thinking about Picasso. About what they will call Cubism. About the kaleidoscope of feelings he has for the man who made him. Realizes that can be two people. Realizes he himself is both a man and an artist, and these are separate, yet the same. His eyes blur. He doesn’t cry, he loses focus. He refocuses. Unfocuses. Paints like this, on and off, in and out of consciousness it seems. The triangle, he decides, is the perfect shape. Rectangles open like the pages of a book before him. There are railings and grates, bars to keep him in, and let him out. A wave of emotion. Another green, another blue. Red. Aside, some frivolous oranges and yellows to keep the dark at bay. To invoke, and provoke, wonder. Lines. Leaves. Shards. He feels like he will never be enough. Has chosen the name Grey as if to challenge the colours on his canvas. The life he lives. The life he wants to lead. Only he doesn’t want to lead. That is for Picasso. For the future. Le jour du compte. El día del juicio. One day at a time. Today he paints. And smokes. And speaks in the way only an artist knows how. Caitlin M.S. Buxbaum Caitlin M.S. Buxbaum is a writer, teacher, filmmaker, and publisher from Wasilla, Alaska. She also plays music, paints, and podcasts. Learn more at caitbuxbaum.com.  Even Gods are no Better than Bachelors Cerebus, great guardian of the Underworld, stood and searched the distance, all three heads growling. Pluto sighed. “Calm down, boy, no one approaches today.” Cerberus’ central head turned to the God and whined. “It is yet mid-summer; she will not return until the first cold winds of approaching winter.” Pluto was in something of a funk, even for him. Cerberus’s right head growled again. Pluto waved his hand. “Go play with Tartarus if you must. I am content here.” Cerberus’ heads looked at each other as if they did not believe him. His left head snuffled as if in question. Pluto sighed again. “Fine, I suppose i have not been taking care of myself as well as I could.” Cerberus approached his master and used two of his heads to nuzzle Pluto’s leg. “She would not put up with me on a day like today, would she?” Cerberus answered with a single sneeze. “Ah, Prosperina, how I am lost without you.” The God stood and stretched. “Alright Cerebus, let’s find your ball.” Cerberus immediately brighted up. Pluto looked himself up and down. “Perhaps I should put something on beyond just my crown…” Cerberus barked happily and lumbered off to find his ball. Brydon Caldwell Brydon Caldwell is a long time teacher and emerging writer from the western edge of the Canadian Shield. A lifetime of creativity and flirtation with the written word has finally coalesced into writing that he’s proud to put out into the world. His writing can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, The Fib Review, and the upcoming Fear Dealer, Opolis 2026, and Still From Somewhere anthologies.  Camouflage Collaboration When Jamie appeared at the end of my checkout lane, her face pinched and eyes burning, my stomach rolled over. She chattered the whole way home. “I don’t know how he got in, Mom. He doesn’t move when I push him, just stands there in the middle of the living room. The furniture’s a wreck. I didn’t know what to do!” By now her face was a soggy red mess. “Don’t worry, we’ll work it out.” I patted her hand. My stomach rocked and rolled. When I saw him, my first thought was that he was orange, not gray. I always thought they were gray. You know, with wrinkles and big eyes. This one was orange, but big and powerful. Jamie and I tried every scheme to get him to leave the living room. I explained that it’s not possible for us to live with an elephant in the room. But he refused to speak. He just stood there, big and bold. I had an immediate problem. My friends were coming over with a bottle of the good stuff, and they couldn’t see this stranger taking root right where my coffee table used to be before it lay in splinters on the carpet. Jamie is a smart kid. Much smarter than her grades show. Her grades are a result of all that stuff that went on in the past. So it made sense she was the one with the idea. “Mom, remember that dance year everyone was Minnie Mouse? You said you couldn’t find me at first because we all were in pink polka dots and the stage was lit with pink spots all over the curtains and floor. I saw where she was going with that idea immediately. She gets her brains from this side, natch. She ran to the paint store while I prepped the room, protecting the remaining furniture by covering it with old sheets. When Chels and Britt walked in at nine that night they oohed over the brilliant orange living room. They loved the ink dots on the walls, the floor, the old sheets, and of course on the visitor who just would not leave. They saw the orange and the dots, but nothing unsettling. We sat at the kitchen table, and Jamie joined us for once. About ten minutes in, Jamie kicked me and nodded toward the doorway. Our dotted gatecrasher’s head was poking through, his trunk wiggling toward Britt’s ponytail. Luanne Castle Luanne Castle’s hybrid flash memoir, Scrap: Salvaging a Family, is a finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards Her story, “Garden Seasons,” was selected by Diane Seuss for Best Microfiction 2026. She has published four award-winning poetry collections, and her ekphrastic flash and poetry collection Hunting the Cosmos is forthcoming from Shanti Arts. Luanne lives with her husband and two cats in Arizona along a wash that wildlife use as a thoroughfare. https://www.luannecastle.com/  Lost After bribing Charon to bring me across the Styx with a bundle of Ah Ma’s vintage jade bracelet and a 24K gold chain necklace, I encountered the mighty God seated on an obsidian throne while the three-headed Cerberus was growling at me. I expected Pluto to be a bit more impressive, not as some talking copper statue reduced to a sickly green patina. “What do you want?” he roared. I explained that I didn’t get to say good-bye to Ah Ma, wanted to see her, ask her for forgiveness for letting her die alone. I pleaded with him, knowing that I was no living hero nor was I dead yet to make the journey, but could he make an exception? He threw his head back and let out a cavernous laughter, Cerberus cackling with him while advancing slowly towards me. I slipped three sponge cakes made with a sedative and imbibed with honey from my crossbody bag and threw them at the hound whose three heads gulped each cake. “You’re a real fuck-up aren’t you!” the God said, wiping tears of laughter, “Your mother’s not here, dumb ass!” Of course, what was I thinking?! Ah Ma never believed in gods, heaven or hell, let alone gwei-lo gods. Or had I simply gone to the wrong Underworld? I slapped my forehead: I should have gone to Diyu, where souls were judged, their deeds weighed, and maybe reincarnated. If Ah Ma knew how I messed up looking for her, she’d shake her head, scold me, told me how she’d always been right about my sloppiness. By now, she might have already drunk the reincarnation tea; her past life memories erased. I was too late. Again. And if she wasn’t reincarnated, then would I want her to be disappointed in me, again, for having searched in the wrong place of all places! Pluto was still roaring with laughter. I tiptoed slowly backward; echoes of the snoring Cerberus reverberated in the dark tunnel. Christine H. Chen Christine H. Chen was born in Hong Kong and grew up in Madagascar before settling in Boston where she worked as a research chemist. Her fiction has appeared in The Forge, SmokeLong Quarterly, Time & Space Magazine, Fractured Lit., and anthologized in Wigleaf Top 50 Very Short Fictions 2023, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions among others. She is a recipient of the 2022 Mass Cultural Council Artist Fellowship. Read her stories at www.christinehchen.com or @CSquareH.bsky.social  Tunnel of Love Denise hated the idea of the Haunted House ride but went ahead because Harry insisted. As a little girl, she’d had nightmares in camps when her friends used to tell ghost stories. “C'mon now, it’ll be fun!” Harry said. Denise was so charmed by his British accent, his mane of red hair, and the freshness of the relationship that she agreed. They sat on a pumpkin-coloured carriage which made her feel like Cinderella. Maybe she should just relax and stop being so serious. Maybe her mom was right. “You’re too uptight!” her mom had said when she’d broken up with her first boyfriend because he’d told her if they got married she would stay home and cook for him, “Sometimes, you just have to let the boys be boys. You’re not getting any younger, you know.” The cart lurched forward in the dark and she gripped her purse hard for fear of dropping it in the dark. Harry was excited. He kissed her on her cheek. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad, Denise thought. As soon as they entered the tunnel, Harry snarled and made all sorts of ghoulish sounds. “Please stop doing that!” she begged him. Ghostly white shapes surged on the walls. Suddenly, a skeleton dropped from the ceiling and Denise yelped when its plastic phalanges touched her forehead. The air was stale and stuffy, pierced by squeals from the fair goers in the carts ahead. Harry guffawed when Denise jumped and screamed as a vampire rose to her right, fake blood dripping from its fangs, and Harry dropped an ice cube on the back of her dress. At the end of the ride, when she was again bathed in the safety of the daylight, she turned towards him, and said, “Goodbye, Harry, I hope you go to hell!” in the politest voice she could muster. Christine H. Chen Christine H. Chen was born in Hong Kong and grew up in Madagascar before settling in Boston where she worked as a research chemist. Her fiction has appeared in The Forge, SmokeLong Quarterly, Time & Space Magazine, Fractured Lit., and anthologized in Wigleaf Top 50 Very Short Fictions 2023, Best Microfiction, Best Small Fictions among others. She is a recipient of the 2022 Mass Cultural Council Artist Fellowship. Read her stories at www.christinehchen.com or @CSquareH.bsky.social  The Seamstress Untitled, by Jacques and Charles Biederer (Czechoslovakia) 1920s Attired in the clothes my mother wore, stitched to the very contours of my head, my hips, my heart and soul. She fashioned me couture, polyester couture, sewn with parasitic thread, woven with her disposition, disappointments, fantasies and dreams; her every hope and every scheme, embroidered on so fine I cannot tell what’s hers or mine. Where does she end and I begin? Mother donned me in unyielding cloth of bright and cheerful cleverness, intellect and talent. She left no room for me to breathe complaint. She sewed my ruby lips to a smile that would taint relationships with men whom I’d beguile. And they, thinking I am real, turned their heads while I would steal their hearts and wallets too. It’s what my mother used to do. But I am not my mother, and once I came of age to know this attire so ill-fitting, I found a seamstress-sorcerer whose enchanted scissors cut through the cloth so it would fray and, over time the girl my mother made of me simply fell away. Karen FitzGerald Karen FitzGerald is a genre-fluid writer who’d never heard of ekphrastic writing before stumbling upon The Ekphrastic Review in 2021. Since then, under the tutelage of Lorette C. Luzajic and Robin Gabbert, her adventures in the world of art and artists have provided her the most thought-provoking learning experience of her senior years.  Looking Inward Towards Grief He knows I abhor funerals, especially one for our only child. He said I should have worn my black dress, not my striped blouse, because it looks like a prison uniform. Why not? I am held captive by grief, so I think it's the perfect top. My arms feel like lead, and every breath is a strain. I prefer to stay home alone, with my thoughts. What's wrong with hiding from the world? Illness took our precious daughter away from us. The doctors said there was nothing we could do. Well-meaning friends send fruit baskets filled with fruits and fresh purple grapes, but I have no appetite. He knows I am contemplating moving out of the house, even after our expensive renovation, like the custom magenta curtains in the dining room. There will be no more entertaining. The house feels as empty as our backyard with the lone tree out the window. I don't know why it stopped growing. I am stunted like a tree, ambling around in slow motion, with nowhere to go. He knows enough to leave me alone, pondering what life could have been had Abby lived beyond four months: giggles, rolling over, crawling. Those dreams have ended. He knows this is our worst nightmare. And maybe we will wake up soon enough under a more welcoming moon. Until then, I lie awake at night and see her empty cradle in the corner of the room. It will have to go. In the end, though, it's Abby's tender moments that will never leave us—her sweet smile, sparkling eyes, and her tiny fingers cradled inside our loving hands for eternity. Brenda A. Jacobsen Brenda lives and writes by the beach in Norwalk, CT. As a trained writing facilitator through the Amherst Writers Association, she has studied at the Westport Writers' Workshop and with Kathy Fish. Works published: Thorn & Bloom, Gone Lawn, Journal of Expressive Writing, Pathos to Play Anthology, Flash Flood UK, Wordrunner Chapbook, forthcoming in Words and Whimsy. She is the founder and facilitator of the Purple Sofa Writers. Follow her on Insta @brenpiper and Substack: @brendaliceinherpalace  Connectivity My two sons each have maplike birthmarks wrapped from back to belly, on the right side, both angled in exactly the same way. These two sons are biologically as unrelated as sons can be—one cut from my uterus, the other brought home on a plane from Ohio—and yet their bodies carry this anomaly. Their only physical similarity as they grow into men, their brown stains becoming darker, brewed coffee fingers laying up their backs. Shape of time Come to test whether it’s true Remembering the remembering Words to keep everything alive. The doctor measures their marks—one son’s when his ruptured lip is bleeding onto the white paper bedding after he collides with the hardwood steps leading to the deck with the maple tree that grows through its centre, where the chickadees boisterously cluster, where over time we will widen the hole little by little for the sturdier and sturdier trunk, making sure no child foot slips through. The other’s when he chips a bone in the middle finger of his right hand skateboarding with a new batch of chickadees. He spends hours over many days patiently standing on the deck by the birdfeeders, a scattering of seeds on his sleeves, the tops of his shoes, until the birds learn to trust him and his outstretched hands, the delicate forearms, his bony shoulders. Even when he wilds around on his board, they stay nearby waiting for him to still. Harmless, the doctor pronounces. These marks. Something about size that says, watch, look out, pay attention. Or not. Henry had the exact same dark map, back to belly, same size and position, and when he rolled to his left and I rolled up against him, my right arm draped onto this mark he never saw, the one my boys have carried since birth. I could have told him about this mark, that it’s like my sons’, but then I wonder why I would have said that. Would he think, what a strange thing for this new woman in his life to say? We were new, and of course I would notice after we stripped off our clothes, sometime through the reaching and touching, the exploring and braving into each other. The breath. And surprise. The settling down. The beauty of his body by mine. On mine. In mine. But then I forgot it just like I forgot my sons’ until much later—years later, losses later, now later—remembering the remembering of how unusual it is that all three of these unrelated men, unrelated except through me who loves them all fiercely and unconditionally, have this mark on their bodies, this same exact mark on their bodies. One dies young. One too early. One survives the most impossible impossibilities. We begin in water, the slush of tongues Leave in the dusk where joy and sorrow mate They come from a family of no graves In the afternoon, in the sun, I remember. Annaliese Jakimides Shaped by her first-generation-American family in inner-city Boston, followed by decades raising her own in a small northern Maine town, Annaliese Jakimides is a writer and visual artist. Cited in state and national competitions, more than 1,000 short works—prose and poetry—have appeared in magazines, journals, anthologies, and audiobooks, on radio and stage. Recent or upcoming publications address liminal space, transformation, and obsession. She lives in Bangor, Maine. annaliesejakimides.com.  The Yellow Butterfly It looked perfect on the vacation rental website. A “treehouse in the mist,” they called it. He needed the respite; a weekend away seemed like the answer to his recent angst. Stuck on the next chapter, believing his shitty first draft would never transfrom into the butterfly he thought it could be when he started writing. And then this, a puddled floor and an unmade bed. Of course, one never knows what to expect when traveling, but this was too much. He pulled out his phone to call the owner of the place and tried to modulate his voice to sound like the calm person he always strived to be but never quite could. It was then he saw a yellow butterfly with black dots fly in through the open window. The most beautiful one he had ever seen. And while he pondered his next steps and before turning around to return to his car, he watched the butterfly hover near his head as though to tell him not to worry - about it all. Jennifer B. Kahnweiler Jennifer B. Kahnweiler is a poet and the author of five nonfiction books, translated into eighteen languages, including the bestseller The Introverted Leader. Based in Atlanta, Georgia, she turned to poetry during the pandemic — first as a lifeline, then as a lasting practice. She received the 2021 Natasha Trethewey Poetry Prize from the Atlanta Writers Club, and one of her poems has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her work has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, Constellations, MacQueen's Quinterly, San Antonio Review, Open Door Journal, The Quill, and The Ekphrastic Challenge. Love and Tomatoes, her first book of poetry, will be published in 2027.  Last Ride Suzy had grown tired walking around WeirdWorld Amusement Park that day with her boyfriend James. She knew he had hoped for it to be fun and felt how encouraging he was buying her cotton candy and soft drinks. But any good emotions had been failing her since they made the long circuit of the bumper cars, Ferris wheel, air flyers, and other famous rides. Then James pointed out the Tunnel of Love. “Couples seem to like this one,” he said, nodding towards a pair getting into a Tunnel car. “Why don’t we go on it?” “I dunno,” Suzy said in a weary tone. “We’ve gone on plenty of rides already.” James smiled. “It could be the fun we’ve been missing.” Suzy sighed; her boyfriend’s smiles had a way of winning her when nothing else did. “Alright, let’s try it. But this is the last one.” When the next red car came for riders, James and Suzy went and got in comfortably side by side and were drawn into the tunnel. The shadowy inside of the Tunnel of Love made Suzy uneasy from the first. Isn’t this supposed to be bright and cheerful?, she asked herself. She thought, like many, of love as a sunlit and welcoming place. She imagined a room in shades of pink. A garden. But now from the side of the tunnel leapt a skeleton, shaking on a rod. Suzy let out a cry as her heart leapt. Mercifully, the car rolled on just passing the sweep of the skeleton’s hand. But it left her wondering what had she and James had gotten into taking this ride. Around the corner, the two neared a pale spot of light. It seemed nothing until they discovered a ghoul of a man at its edge. The skin on his head sagged in drape-like folds ready to roll off his face. Suzy jumped back from the figure as the car swept past the corner. Before another fright could come, Suzy pressed herself against James and clasped his hand. She had never wanted his comfort as much as now since knowing him. “Don’t worry, Suzy,” James said, pressing back on her hand. “I’m right here to keep you safe.” Moments later, a skeleton dropped from the ceiling and landed directly before them. Suzy hollered her worst. But James kept close at her side without flinching. The skeleton was yanked away on its wire as if in answer to his act of confidence. Suzy breathed a sigh of relief and bowed her head onto James’s shoulder. How good that he’s here!, she thought. Suzy was that sunk in relief now she failed to note the robot in the straw hat who winked at James near the ride’s end. But James got the robot’s hint. The ride for love had given Suzy ample reason to long for him just as he had been hoping all day. Norbert Kovacs Norbert Kovacs lives and writes in Hartford, Connecticut. He loves visiting art museums, especially the Met in New York. He has published art-inspired stories in The Ekphrastic Review and Worthing Flash. His website: http://www.norbertkovacs.net.  Einstein’s Theory of Alternate Universes The past is present and the present is past. While I write, Great-Grandma Bryna plays with the head curls of her latest eynekel. Grandma Eva makes her stuffed cabbage with raisins in white sauce. Grandpa Max watches the fights on TV. While I’m sleeping, my mother wraps her hair with toilet paper, secures it with hair clips to keep her salon coiffure. While I’m standing graveside, butterflies flap a portal into existence. I pluck a pinch of salt from the box in the tenement kitchen and season ancestor stew, let my bubbes and zaydes taste the present while I dig deep with my ladle to sample the past. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet whose recent ekphrastic collections include Poems from the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (dancing girl press), The Wanderers (Shanti Arts), and the forthcoming The Appropriation of Brueghel (Shanti Arts). Her ekphrastic work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Metphrastics, The Light Ekphrastic, and elsewhere. She serves as host of The Ekphrastic Review's Book Club.  How It Began What stands out most for me on that class trip is not the Pennsylvania Dutch pretzel factory or seeing the horses and buggies, the bonnets and hats, beards and overalls. What I remember most is stopping at a service area on the way home. In my home-sewn pink culottes, white pantyhose, pink checkerboard blouse, I stepped onto a concrete parking space block. I stared at the pinks, purples, and oranges of approaching dusk. It might have been April. A slight wind blew through my long brown hair. Someone approached me from behind. It was you. I don’t remember what you said. But it seemed to me that you singled me out of all the students. I was just a freshman. You were the teacher. But it was a moment. Like you knew what I was seeing out there in G-d’s canvas and it meant something to you, too. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet whose recent ekphrastic collections include Poems from the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (dancing girl press), The Wanderers (Shanti Arts), and the forthcoming The Appropriation of Brueghel (Shanti Arts). Her ekphrastic work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Metphrastics, The Light Ekphrastic, and elsewhere. She serves as host of The Ekphrastic Review's Book Club.  Robot In Malá Strana’s underworld, Marketa holds her own, buying lilies of the valley every day from a kerchiefed, gold-toothed old woman near the train station. This small act of kindness Marketa does for herself, not knowing the long day ahead of dressing and undressing, of giving her body over to the whims of korun and mustached men in pinstriped suits. Each day her face grows thinner, more angular, preferring to spend her few coins on flowers instead of sausages and beer. Her eyes narrow to dark slits while she piles her wavy hair on her head, her locks her singular beauty, that and her breasts that she announces with the enameled heart pin Tomasz gave her years ago. Each day becomes a series of mechanical actions. She repeats, robota, robota. Work, work. She fingers the brooch and remembers saying goodbye to him at the train station, he in his infantry uniform. Then she still had choices. Then she had her pick of the flower shop and the track to take. As she passes by a gold stucco residence on Říční Street, heading toward the Vltava River, an artist looks up from his easel, sees Marketa. He picks up his brush, angles the bristles on his canvas, and murmurs, robota, robota, inventing a new word for an emotionless, mechanical being. Barbara Krasner Barbara Krasner is a New Jersey-based poet whose recent ekphrastic collections include Poems from the Winter Palace (Bottlecap Press), The Night Watch (Kelsay Books), Insomnia: Poems after Lee Krasner (dancing girl press), The Wanderers (Shanti Arts), and the forthcoming The Appropriation of Brueghel (Shanti Arts). Her ekphrastic work has also appeared in The Ekphrastic Review, Metphrastics, The Light Ekphrastic, and elsewhere. She serves as host of The Ekphrastic Review's Book Club.  Happy Family My parents’ shadows reach back toward me as I crouch behind the curtain. Partially hidden in my usual spot in its voluminous folds I watch all of their performances every night and every matinee, from my secret place in the black velvet drapery folds that are the backdrop for their dance. My spot is where the two sides come together and I can peak through without being seen and although it is the same each time I see it, I revel in watching the lights shine on them from the coloured row of lamps on the catwalk. In these lights they seem to be lightly swaying, their bodies moving in concert with the tunes amid a profusion of happy colours, the light making their bodies lightly visible beneath the costumes to me, standing behind them. IS it the same effect for the audience? I wonder… Yes, happy colours indeed, for I think my parents are happiest when they dance together, the spotlight fixed on them, making them the centre of attention for the audience in front of them—and for me, behind them, though I do not think they realize I am back here, watching each and every step they take. The coloured lights add interest, I’ve heard them explain, help the audience follow the rhythms of the music. I like those too. Besides just watching, I listen to music and move my head in time with it. At last, the fiddler’s notes announce to me (who knows the program well) that the final minutes of onstage time are arriving and I carefully slip out from the velvet curtain’s grasp and scamper quickly to the family dressing room, where I am supposed to be waiting for them with my homework. I heard the music stop. Applause shakes the little theater all the way to the backstage rooms. I smile. Applause makes them happy. I picture them taking a bow with the spotlight still on them. More applause. Then, steps. The musical intro for the next act plays as the door handle turns and my mother and father push themselves into the room. They are already arguing over who made the missteps that caused them to receive only one curtain call. They hardly notice me. I marvel that the joy of life, the strong love of being and moving together exhibited on stage has been snuffed out by the backstage air. I drop my book. Both turn and glower at me. “Did you keep your grubby little paws out of the stage make-up?” Mother hisses. Father looks at me appraisingly: “Did you practice the steps I showed you earlier today? You have to start thinking about an act of your own or joining us on stage—we need the money. Show biz kids need to pay their way.” Father tells me. “You do want to dance with us, don’t you?” I stand up and move my feet to their music—it’s always in my head. I don’t say anything, but of course, I want to dance with them. On stage, under the lights, is the only place we can glow as a happy family. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer whose poems, essays, books, and articles have appeared in many journals, including Silver Birch Press, The Ekphrastic Review, One Art, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and others. She has been nominated for Best of the Net and for the Pushcart Prize. Her collection of poems, Feathers on Stone is available from Main Street Rag.  What the Audience Does Not See (a Flash CNF) Just as a magician does not reveal secrets of the disappearing coin that can appear from behind your ear or how to saw a lady sawn in half, so the actors and stage designers keep the secrets of their craft “backstage.” These elegantly drawn screened-off room that are the preparation place for the Japanese theatre of the 1850s are not so very different from the places I have stood, waited, worked, rehearsed my appearances in plays and for solo performances—these are the places where the seed of magic that will bloom onstage is cosseted and prepped for presentation. I don’t need to read Japanese to understand what is going on—I know. See there the ones who are standing, already in costume, running lines with one another? Where should I place the accent, one might be saying: Is he dead? Is HE dead? Is he DEAD? Look, see the room where the make-up artists are turning ordinary faces into madmen, ingenues, sirens, or clowns? And the room with all the notes fastened to the wall? Is that the prop master’s place? These notes then likely instruct when to put out each item and where it must be placed in order for the appropriate actor to find and use it. Or are these the notes of the director, final bits and pieces of his direction for that person running lines, for the costumers, set designers, or for all of them? In some of these spaces, those who are in charge of the scenery are reviewing their last-minute changes to the backdrops, checking the equipment for stage effects. Several rooms for them. And what about the one who will communicate with those making music (if there is music used) so offer the proper tone to the action or keep the tension at peak during breaks of scene or Acts? All of this is there—and when the bell rings or buzzer calls, or gong calls all to attention that it is almost showtime, their magic duties over, these rooms will again trans form into simple spaces and the magic will reside on stage, to be revealed as the curtains pull back or lights illuminate it, that sacred space, where sets and scrims, and props and music will join in with the actors to transport the audience into a world apart from their own, where the seeds cosseted by creativity and imagination in that backstage space will bloom and the aroma of its beauty will carry the audience into a new and different world—for at least as long as the play lasts. Joan Leotta Joan Leotta is a writer and story performer whose poems, essays, books, and articles have appeared in many journals, including Silver Birch Press, The Ekphrastic Review, One Art, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and others. She has been nominated for Best of the Net and for the Pushcart Prize. Her collection of poems, Feathers on Stone is available from Main Street Rag.  The Brain and Imagination The artist explores through an abstract motif how the brain works. In this collage, I see a portrayal of the randomness of synapses and links that determine the brain’s workings, and in particular, the imagination. Luzajic enhances the wide scope and indefinite character of the imagination by her use of a wide variety of coluors, textures. The dominant yellow cloud-like shapes can represent cores of synapses, while nerve connections vital to the brain’s functioning, appear on the lines that drop, like streamers, elongating nerve impulses, assuring that connections between ideas are made. In contrast, yellow polka dots may allude to Yayoi Kusuma’s conceptual world order. Luzajic’s elongation of dots (blue, white, pink), may suggest the explosion of knowledge that arrives with the synoptic pulses, random as they may be. The interplay of white O’s and Xs, along with plus(+) signs, alludes to the brain’s use of logic, as in a chess game, for solving problems. The brain’s left side, reputed source of logic, is here intertwined with the more artistic sensitivities of the right, so that this colourful collage expresses the transformation of imaginative impulses to order and beauty. The feeling of the artwork is one of pulling down. Gravity draws down the lines, the yellow and white extensions suggest, paradoxically, rootedness and mobility. This is part of the unpredictable pulsating of nerve cells. Even the black scribbles here and there, and numbers at the bottom and upper right, suggest a randomness of synaptic behavior, as well as scattered components of creation. The sky in the background clarifies the working components of nerves. It can remind us that some aspects of nature are more stable than the apparent spasticity of the nervous system. The cerulean blue comprises a stable background to the constantly moving, shifting, pulsing together in this collage, without overwhelming it. Beauty is not a simple line, though William Hogarth made much of that in his 1753 treatise on The Analysis of Beauty, where he argues that the “line of beauty” is serpentine. Beauty is more complexly represented in this 21st century work. The vertical lines, suggest, in addition to elongated nerve impulses, rain showers from clouds. These strong aspects of nature on earth enhance the complexity of creation. Luzajic also alludes to order in this seemingly erratic creative process, by laying down under yellow and white objects vague structures of blue, green, black, grey, hot pink, even yellow and black stripes. She thus exhibits simultaneously randomness and order, predominantly vertical, that forces our eyes to move up and down. As noted earlier, there is also an irony that can be said to mock the more erratic routes used by brain waves to create new ideas, revelations, and possibly transform old ones. The title Stumbling on Light suggests the unexpectedness of the brain’s creativity, as difficult to hold down as the yellow and white clouds. The revelation light can offer is unexpected. A rainbow is a good example; it shows us many of the component colours that make up light. Light changes almost every second, so “stumbling” on it suggests a special moment of insight, awareness, and perhaps, a mystical revelation.. Discover the light. Pulses animate the brain All that we can imagine. Mary K. Lindberg Mary K. Lindberg, poet, author, musician and performer, explores links between art, music, dance, literature. Her most recent publication is a poetry collection, Dance of Atoms, (Oakledge Press, December, 2025). A chapbook, The Tang of Glue, appeared in 2006 (Puddinghouse Publications). Prize-winning poems in Beloit Poetry Journal, Gallery&Studio, Blueline, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. Broadcasts on NPR-WNYC. Grand Prize Winner, Dancing Poetry Contest (2021 and 2026); Poet of the Month, United Poets Laureate International 2021, 2023. Enjoys challenges of ekphrastic writing.  Secrets of Scissors I suspected this first pattern would not work for Evelyn. It does not fall smoothly on her backside. She needs to stay still. I will be careful. As I work on this slip for her, I have to cope with a memory of our mother cutting up dad’s love letters. How could she do that while he was still alive? Both Evelyn and I were often shocked at what our mother Essie did, but this event was indeed memorable. We loved our dad, Sam, and didn’t know of any friction between them. One day, while we were eating lunch, Essie blurted out, standing by the kitchen sink: “In case you’re wondering what papers I’m cutting, these are the love letters your father sent me during the war.” This drew our attention to what she was doing to some papers. What I later learned she didn’t say to us was: “Don’t be shocked. I never really loved him. He was a gambler, a skirt-chaser. When I learned about his poker debts, I confronted him. He blamed me for not being, in his words, ‘supportive.’” I overheard her say this to a girlfriend. In the kitchen that day Essie continued to address us: “I guess you think this act barbaric, but believe me, he deserved it.” Eleanor covered her mouth for fear of what she would say, but I, the older sister named after my father’s mother Bertha, could not stop shaking. Now I’m slicing a pattern for a lace-lined satin slip I designed as a wedding present for Eleanor. She will marry someone, if you can believe it, named Sam. Our cutting-up mother gave me these scissors, the same she had used to destroy the letters. Maybe that’s why I recall all this now. When our father died some time later, Essie found a lipstick-tinged cigarette in his car. She put it on a plate and showed it to us like a trophy. We were a little shocked, wondered what she would do with it. No surprise. She cut up the cigarette with this very scissors. Ah, I think I’m done now. It looks just right. She will be stunning on the inside and the outside. Scissors fix a slip. Mom cut up dad’s love letters. My cutting is love. Mary K. Lindberg Mary K. Lindberg, poet, author, musician and performer, explores links between art, music, dance, literature. Her most recent publication is a poetry collection, Dance of Atoms, (Oakledge Press, December, 2025). A chapbook, The Tang of Glue, appeared in 2006 (Puddinghouse Publications). Prize-winning poems in Beloit Poetry Journal, Gallery&Studio, Blueline, The Ekphrastic Review, and others. Broadcasts on NPR-WNYC. Grand Prize Winner, Dancing Poetry Contest (2021 and 2026); Poet of the Month, United Poets Laureate International 2021, 2023. Enjoys challenges of ekphrastic writing.  A Bunch They came back, just like Gert knew they would. She spotted them right away, their dark disk-shaped ship hovering outside her window, just above her tree. Gert had known they’d materialize tonight, as they had each new moon for the last three months. What a bunch of dummies. The problem was nobody paid attention to details anymore. They’d beam her up, and she’d aim for patience. “I’m not one of your subjects, guys. I’m here on a mission, like you. Check the register. See? That’s right, same as last month. I live on 1st Street. Your subjects live on 10th Street, a mile away. Yes, ‘that little oval thingy after the 1’ is meaningful on this planet, it’s called a--What? Don’t blame me, I didn’t name these streets. Just activate the release beam and go get your humans. I have to get back to my own work.” They’d mumble an apology and release her, beam her back. But the rest of the evening was always shot. Reentry was discombobulating. Might as well use the time she had now before they zapped her up and they went through the whole routine again. She reached for another grape, considered its properties. Better at room temperature, or frozen? She made a few notations in her data log. She could feel the tug of their beam now. It wouldn’t be long. At the last minute, she grabbed her little black hat, placed it atop her head. It vaguely resembled their ship. Maybe some of them had a sense of humour. As Gert was once again transported aboard, she thought about her work, what she’d do once she’d recovered from reentry. These grapes were complex and required careful consideration. She’d also heard about this beverage, wine. Clearly more research was needed. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet with work appearing in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and ONE ART. Her story, “Sibling Rivalry,” was selected for Best Microfiction (2026). Tracy’s poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking by day and film noir by night. You can find her on Bluesky.  Pluto’s To-Do List
Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet with work appearing in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and ONE ART. Her story, “Sibling Rivalry,” was selected for Best Microfiction (2026). Tracy’s poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking by day and film noir by night. You can find her on Bluesky.  What I See The remains of a once-majestic redwood, it’s life now sliced, a cross section with rings on didactic display; a spiderweb, home only to husks swathed in gossamer shrouds; a topographic map of a mountain, its peak elusive, its trails obstructed by deadfalls; a tissue sample, its significance causing a pathologist’s face to cloud; this cancer centre labyrinth, here to help me unwind my anxiety on this uncertain journey, to focus on planting each foot in front of the other with slow deliberation as I try to find my way forward, past these obstacles, to a destination but not an end. Tracy Royce Tracy Royce is a writer and poet with work appearing in 100 Word Story, Bending Genres, The Mackinaw, MacQueen’s Quinterly, and ONE ART. Her story, “Sibling Rivalry,” was selected for Best Microfiction (2026). Tracy’s poems have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions. She lives in Southern California, where she enjoys hiking by day and film noir by night. You can find her on Bluesky.  Ironing Day Sophie’s muscles bulged in her thin frame, rippling like sleek creatures under her skin. Laundry was hard work. She always thought Monday’s washing was the worst part of the week—the weight of wet sheets, the wringing-rolling, the steamy heat that made her sweat even on cold days, the harsh soap on her hands, the bleaching, the drying—a day that seemed longer than twenty-four hours. But then came Tuesday, ironing day. The routine was pleasant at first but soon came tedium, muscle aches from the standing and repetition, one blistering burn, then another. Worst was fear. With every touch of iron to cloth, she worried she’d scorch a customer’s clothing. She couldn’t afford to pay anyone for a ruined shirt, a damaged dress, a mistake. A welcome puff of air made the frayed curtains dance for a minute. She looked up. Outside shacks as time-faded as hers hunched like beaten dogs. The sun set, and still she heated and reheated irons on the stove, ironed-out wrinkles, wishing she could do that for her life; wished she could make it sparkle as if after rain. A fresh world. A fresh start. Someone else to wash and iron. Merril D. Smith Merril D. Smith is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated poet from New Jersey. Her first full-length poetry collection, River Ghosts (Nightingale & Sparrow Press) was Black Bough Poetry’s December 2022 Book of the Month. Her second collection is Held Inside the Folds of Time (Jane’s Studio Press, 2025). Find her at Bluesky: @merrildsmith.bsky.social; Instagram: mdsmithnj Blog: merrildsmith.org  Moon in Scorpio This is not your month. Take heart as the days wither and do not look ahead of your immediate tasks. Life unfolds where focus takes you, and the time for the interior is now, when the moon is in your breast and only you know its quiet and fullest burn. The inner gaze of desire pushes outward, a river of temptation like witch’s brew. Do not drink lest you be carried away, your final vision, a lover’s hand never reaching your face. Rebecca Surmont Rebecca Surmont can’t get enough of the short summers, living in MN with her husband and dog. She writes mostly when it’s not summer. Her written work has been in publications such as the new anthology ICE Out Minnesota Writers Rise Up, The Mackinaw, RockPaperPoem, Last Leaves, The Orchards, Amethyst Review, Hare’s Paw, Steel Jackdaw, Eunoia Review, and Crowstep Poetry Journal. She works as a leadership consultant.  Exchanging a Pawn for a Queen It wasn't just a chess game. The winner got the Princess. She had no choice. Even though she was educated in the Royal Court, her silence was rewarded. Her wisdom not so much. At least, she would get the man with the most intelligence. That was one small consolation. Hopefully, it would also be the one with the most wealth. That's the only goal any female in the Royal Court could attain: an intelligent and wealthy man. And kind. That goes without saying that they all hoped their husbands would be kind. If her husband was kind, wealthy, and intelligent, she could potentially continue her education. Anything was better than sitting with her ladies-in-waiting, endlessly weaving, spinning, and sewing. She was an artist and wanted to perfect her talent. Carving was her passion but there had never been a female carver in the Royal Court before. She had to settle for painting when she had any free time, away from the prying eyes of her chaperones. But what she really wanted to do was carve sacred symbols on the palace walls. If only, if only, she silently pleaded, eyes focused on the board while her mind drifted with the breeze that she felt coming in from the window. She hoped the Prince of Memphis would win. The other Prince was from Thebes, an area with more traditional requirements for women. Memphis was said to be more progressive in their view of women's roles in the court. Besides, the Prince of Memphis exhibited a more regal behaviour, sitting with legs tucked sideways and no signs of discomfort on his face; whereas the Prince of Thebes slouched casually, almost disrespectfully considering the gravity of the situation. At the moment, the Prince of Memphis was in the lead. She sat very still to ensure she didn't inadvertently cause any distractions. Her legs were tucked up to her chest, her manner submissive and her hand ready to cover her mouth whenever she felt the need to gasp at a foolish play. She could see her ladies-in-waiting peering anxiously around the doorway. The minute the winner was declared, the Princess would be whisked off for her bridal preparations. Nobody, except her ladies-in-waiting and chaperones would see her until the morrow when she was presented to the winner in front of the alter. Then, as soon as the Priest pronounced them as man and wife, they would be escorted to the bridal chambers. The marriage must be consummated immediately, in front of each family's designated chaperones. After that barbaric task had been completed, the party could officially begin. "Checkmate," was heard loud and clear. A cheer went up in the hallway. The Princess stood gracefully and bowed submissively towards her Prince. Her heart fluttered. She had struck gold. The Prince of Memphis had indeed won. Not only was he intelligent, but he wasalso incredibly handsome. Her knees weakened as she thought of how his hands would feel on her body tomorrow. Martha J. Urquhart Martha J. Urquhart loves to experiment with different styles of poetry, both traditional and contemporary. She has been writing sporadically for decades. She writes poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and novels. She enters different contests to challenge herself by writing according to specific themes using different methods in different genres. Martha's goal in her third act of life is to have fun launching her writing career.  Unmade Bed and Butterflies Annika looked at the choice of collage fodder in front of her. Sighed. So traditional when what she wanted was feral and fractious, something for deep forest gloom, fairies, trolls, ogres. Instead, she found spacious vistas of misty mountains, ads for suites, king beds with covers askew, coffee on the balcony, suggestions of passion in the disarray of pillows. she stabbed the pages with her pen and pulled, shredding their enchantment into tiny pieces which she piled into text, parts of photos, fragments and scraps. Opening her journal, she spread glue, sprinkled the pieces randomly, pressed down, painted over with dry brush black, burned the edges with a red cinnamon-scented candle, dripped wax, pasted more images, painted over them with deep purple, splashed it all with royal blue. Somewhere butterflies named Luzon Peacock Swallowtail, Blue Morphe, Island Marble, Zebra Longwing took fight, oblivious to their short time twirling in the air, feasting on flowers, finding love. Tammy Vitale After completing her memoir about losing her husband of 40 years (2025) and seeing it published (2026), Tammy Vitale sought a way to reenter writing about subjects other than grief. She was introduced to ekphrastic writing and The Ekphrastic Review by a writing friend. Being an artist as well as a writer, she found this approach worked perfectly for finding new prompts to help her progress.  My Mother’s Altar The material is soft, almost translucent. Yuki parts the tissues, raising the small bag from its resting place. Her mother told Yuri about receiving the fabric as a gift from the yosei when she turned 18 years, pulled from the night sky and stars, washed clear in the black depths of the blue ocean. It smelled of sandlewood and plum blossom, scents forever tied to Yuki’s home and safety. The day had brought Yuki unexpected problems but since when were problems ever expected, as if one has an option in life’s fortunes. The day before, she had written her dreams on homemade mulberry paper hoping for a modicum of mastery, some moment of eminence, but suspects this was only wishful thinking. Now she places needles from the Yoshino cedar in its folds, lays it on the altar, lights the blue candle of peace and healing, and whispers to her mother, “Help.” Tammy Vitale Note: yosei: translates to "bewitching spirit". While the word is now used to mean Western-style fairies like Tinker Bell, traditional Japanese folklore features nature and house spirits. (AI Google response) After completing her memoir about losing her husband of 40 years (2025) and seeing it published (2026), Tammy Vitale sought a way to reenter writing about subjects other than grief. She was introduced to ekphrastic writing and The Ekphrastic Review by a writing friend. Being an artist as well as a writer, she found this approach worked perfectly for finding new prompts to help her progress.  Transformation Flight
Three days of fasting and chanting for this trial flight and now Russ stood at the laboratory’s atrium window, looking out over the river, ready for the mission. He clutched the “borrowed” transformation mask, a powerful bird, a Protector, according to his anthropology people. This was the only one of the six transformational masks that their agents had stolen from a university warehouse that would even communicate with him. It was also the most powerful. The other masks resisted positioning on his head. One mask had even cracked in his hands. How ironic that Protector was the only one that had chosen him, which was the way it was supposed to work. A beauty, with red markings and a powerful, hooked beak. Years of dabbling in ethnic spiritual practice were about to pay off for him and his team. Wars happened at all levels. The mission was to surveille invading troops without triggering enemy satellites. Hopefully, he could communicate well enough to guide the bird to what he needed to see. It would be a bonus if there were other powers. His experience with paratrooping paled compared to flying with Power Beak—that was Russ’s name for the mask. Even knowing he was physically standing in the laboratory atrium overlooking the river, he could feel every dip and rise in the bird’s flight. He could hear the other heartbeat, hear the bird call out. To whom, what? Other birds? He could not hear any members of his team standing by to intervene, if needed. That screech could be a problem. But Power Beak was in command, for now. Patience, he thought. He cleared his mind of everything except images of the enemy. The bird flew over nests in the treetops, some with hatchlings. Russ spotted an enemy flag. Thunderbird showed him a family working in their field, no uniforms or identifying markers. The flyovers became increasingly grim. A prison camp paving over a wetland. Ragged tents along a river, refugee encampments. A school still burning, children huddled outside, adults frantically scrambling to rescue anyone inside. Russ was seeing things he already knew about, nothing to report about the enemy here. This mask was not responding and he had lost track of time. But with a swoop and a turn, Russ could see his lab and the window where he stood looking out over the river. But the river began rising, actually exploding, forming its own channel around the lab. He could hear the bird’s heartbeat over his own screams. His last breath caught the thunderous screech of the bird and lightning striking the lab. Rescue teams recovered the headless body of Col. Russell Bates from the laboratory two days later. The mask has not been found. Jane Vogel Jane Vogel's work can be found in Blue Lake Review, Storm Cellar, The Bezine and the 2025 marathon collection in The Ekphrastic Review. She is a retired physical therapist, currently writing about themes of home, shelter and community. Jane lives and works between the Minnesota Twin Cities and the Arizona Valley of the Sun.
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The Ekphrastic Review
COOKIES/PRIVACY
October 2026
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